


The Treachery of Images

by Daegaer



Series: For Art's Sake [35]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Art, Artists, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-05 22:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16375976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Crawford is briefly a respectable artist.





	The Treachery of Images

**Author's Note:**

> "The Treachery of Images" is the title of Magritte's image of a pipe captioned _Ceci n'est pas une pipe._

I am, briefly, a respectable artist, my hand shaken by a local councillor after Mr Fredricks makes an overlong speech about the importance of education and his dedication to bettering the lot of working-class boys. His generosity to the library is, it seems, well-known, and he is modestly genial when thanked for establishing scholarships for bright boys of deserving families, so that they may continue their education to the age of fifteen. He is, it seems, a saint dedicated to the welfare of the young. I think of the _other_ painting he commissioned from me, and manage a convincing smile when required.

"A fine painting, Mr Crawford," the councillor, a Mr Hawkes, says.

"Thank you," I murmur, glad to have painted something so _ordinary_ for once. In it Schuldig is sitting at a library table, engrossed in a book. Piled on the floor beside him are novels, the spines clearly lettered, but from the open books before him and his notes it is clear to see that he is now dedicating himself to more adult fare, and is educating himself past the level a boy of his presumed station would have reached in school. To make sure that I did not make a fool of myself, I borrowed a book on math from this very library, and copied the diagram that seemed most difficult and artistically engaging. Schuldig provided the handwritten notes, to give me a different writing style to copy. I forebore to leave out the swearwords and comments on what exactly Euclid could do to himself.

"Don't I know this boy?" Mr Hawkes' secretary says, and my heart stops.

 _Dear God,_ I think, _is he one of Williamson's friends? Is he talking about one of the parties Schuldig attends?_ Then sense kicks in and I know that such connexions would never be admitted to in public.

"Do you?" I say, almost calmly. "He works for me often."

"I'm sure I've seen him sometimes on the way to the office, sir," he says to Mr Hawkes, then shakes his head. "Perhaps I'm mistaken. Congratulations on your work, Mr Crawford."

"Thank you," I say as they go to speak to someone else.

I breathe out, carefully. I wonder if following their route to work would lead me nearer to Schuldig's home, or simply result in my arrest. I look at his image in paint, solemn and studious. I remember him writing the notes for me to copy in the work, and how he barely seemed to look at the book, as if he might actually know Euclid already. _You do exist outside of the time spent with me or with Miss Lin_ , I think. _Who are you really?_

I am going to find out.


End file.
